The Final Victim(106)

Her heart rate-catapulted to a lofty height the moment she opened that Web link-has yet to return to normal. When she closes her eyes, all she can see is the shocking link to that Louisiana newspaper.

How can this be?

And why?

It doesn't make sense.

There has to be some mistake, or some coincidence.

Yet what are the odds of that? All the details match…

But the photos don't.

The door opens.

Aimee turns to see Detective Dorado-the nice one-standing in the doorway.

"What is it, Mrs. Johnston?" he asks, catching sight of her face. "What's going on?"

"I don't know," she says in a rush, "but you've got to get somebody out to Oakgate right away because I think Charlotte Remington and her daughter are in terrible danger."

Incredulous, Jeanne watches the hooded figure below come to a stop with its tarp-shrouded burden.

Why now? Why there?

Whoever it is went to tremendous effort to drag whatever, or whoever, is wrapped in the tarp quite a distance from the house. Jeanne assumed they were headed for the nearest car, but the car was bypassed in favor of the sprawling branches of the newly fallen tree.

Now what?

Her own plans forgotten, her view partially obscured by cascading moss and foliage, Jeanne sees the flapping tarp come away completely, released to blow into obscurity, carried by the gusting wind. By the time the storm is over, it might very well have been ripped to shreds, or swept out to sea, or tangled in tree limbs miles from Oakgate, mingling with other innocuous storm debris.

Nobody will ever know that this particular tarp shielded not a roof, but, indeed, a corpse.

A female corpse with light-colored hair that Jeanne, even at this distance, finds chillingly familiar.

Part Five
The Final Victim

CHAPTER 17
"There"-Aimee expertly secures the last strip of clean gauze over the wound-"how does that feel? Too tight?"

"Not at all. You're an expert." Royce begins to lower his leg, propped on the toilet seat, with a grimace.

"Don't hurt yourself."

"I won't." He sets it gingerly on the floor and tries to stand, testing his weight on it.

Watching him, Aimee says, "The stairs were too much for you."

"I'm fine."

"No, you aren't."

"Well, I will be… as soon as Charlotte gets back. And she said she's on her way, so-"

She left that message a while ago. How long does it take to drive home from the supermarket, even in bad weather? And why isn't she picking up her cell phone?" Aimee shakes her head worriedly. "What about Lianna?" She's still in her room, right? We'd better go talk to her now."

"And tell her…?"

"That this is getting much too dangerous and as soon as Charlotte gets here," Royce says resolutely, "we're going to have to evacuate. We can't waste another minute." 'That'll go over like a lead balloon."

"No, come on…" He hobbles to the door and out into the hall. "It'll be fine. Let's tell her now."

"You go ahead. She hates me."

"She doesn't hate you."

"Wanna bet?" Aimee folds her arms across her chest and watches him knock on the closed door at the end of the hall.

"Lianna?" He can hear the television blasting, as usual, on the other side of the door. She must be thrilled they have yet to lose power. But he has a feeling that will be short-lived. "Lianna!"

"Are you sure she's in there?" Aimee asks, coming toward him.

'The TV is on. Lianna!" 'Try the door," Aimee says hurriedly.

He does. "It's latched. She has to be inside. Lianna!"

The only sound from within is an eruption of canned laughter from a studio audience.

His heart sinking, Royce commands tersely, "Aimee, get me a chair from the guest room."

"I told you your leg was going to give out," she says, shaking her head as she scurries to oblige.

"No, the chair isn't to sit on. I need to use it to break down this door."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the uniformed officer, dressed in bright orange rain gear, shouts when she rolls down the driver's side window. "I can't let you go over the causeway. It's closed."

"But I live out there!" Charlotte protests. "I have to get home to my family."

"Ma'am, that would be too dangerous. The storm surge is getting higher by the second. Already we've got waves washing over the road."

"But it's the only way to get back on the island!" she protests. "The other one washed away last fall."

"Exactly," he says with a meaningful nod. 'That's why I can't let you drive out there."

"Where am I supposed to go?" 'There's a school back that way that's been set up as a temporary storm shelter. Go wait it out."

"But that could be days!"

"Nah. It blew in faster than they thought. I expect it'll blow out faster, too. See where my car is parked?" He indicates the narrow road ahead. There's a police car perpendicular to the causeway with red lights flashing, acting as a makeshift barricade. 'There's a slight shoulder over there. It's wide enough for you to make your U-turn. Do you need directions to the high school?"